The Hobbit: Retold
by PiptheSnake
Summary: The history of Hobbits is far more complex than than the Big Folk are led to believe. As a direct descendant from the union of a High Elf and a Son of Durin, how will the Company fare with a Bilbo who's cunning, resourceful, trained in weapons and not so useless after all?


DISCLAIMER: No ownership is claimed. The hobbit belongs to Tolkien

PROLOGUE:

Love is a curious thing. Impossible to force, yet strong and unyielding once found. Real love has no barriers, be it gender, age, beliefs or race. And so, in this scenario, does it hold true.

Our tale begins many ages ago, when Middle Earth was sparsely populated and all lived harmoniously and with little strife, with two unsuspecting individuals who, for the first time, were about to meet.

"Be still, Gloriel!" scolded the Elven Lord Luindír as he attempted to comb and braid his youngest child's hair. Gorothwen laughed, fidgeting in her seat as her father's deft fingers wove her hair in delicate patterns.

"Of course, Ada," she chuckled, kicking her feet and scuffing the toes of her pointed shoes on the ground as she stilled her upper body. Luindír released a put upon sigh of frustration as he finished his work, admiring the glowing, auburn strands if his daughters hair.

"There you go," he murmured, spinning her to face him. She grinned as his piercing blue gaze roved over her delicate features, drinking her in for what would be the last time in a long while. Unbidden, tears prickled at the inner corners of her emerald eyes. A single wet drop made its way down her lightly tanned face, making it only to her cheekbone before Luindír's thumb swiped across it, wiping it away.

"Do not weep so, daughter of mine," he murmured softly in Quenya, "for tonight is a joyous occasion. You shall meet your One and find happiness eternal."

More tears slipped from their wells in her eyes, leaving shimmering tracks shining vertically along her face.

"I am afraid, Ada," whispered Gloriel, gaze dropping to where her fingers knotted themselves against the soft, forest-coloured fabric of her gown.

"Do not be afraid, Gloriel; this is merely another chapter in the story of your life. Let it be a happy one."

"I shall try my best," she stated, voice firmer as she raised her tear-streaked face to stare defiantly into the eyes of her father. He smiled.

"That's my sunglow," he murmured warm,y, pulling his youngest into a tight embrace. Although she was now grown - for, indeed, tonight was her final night in the house of her birth family - she would always be his little one.

A loud, trumpeting horn from out in the gardens announced that all had arrived.

Pulling away from the warm, familiar arms of her father, Gloriel smiled bravely - though wetly - at her father, bring her sleeve to her face and wiping away the remains of her tears.

"It is time," was all Luindír said, taking several strides towards the door before turning and offering his slender hand. Accepting it, Gloriel allowed herself to be led outside and into the gardens, where the night's gathering would be taking place.

Gathered around the steps of their home were creatures of all kind. Men and Dwarves, Elves - both High and not - and Skin-Changers. All had come, ready to celebrate the Choosing of a High Elf's One.

Luindír released his hold on Gloriel's hand, walking forward until he was several metres ahead of his daughter.

"Welcome all," he greeted in slightly accented Westron, "to the Choosing Ceremony if the High Elf Gloriel. Food is offered to all at the tables by the fireside, and music shall be played until the sun's first rays breach the mountain peak to the East. Everyone, please enjoy tonight and make a merry time of it, for it will be the last ceremony for long while!"

Spreading his arms to show the end of his speech, the crowd cheered and applauded as an upbeat melody swept through the clearing.

Gloriel joined the crowds subtly, mingling and making small talk with as many folk as she could in an attempt to find her One.

As she was wandering, feeling somewhat lost after the hours of chatting and dancing with no avail, she found her eyes caught by a glinting in the corner. Turning her head ti see more clearly, her heart beat a little faster at the sight of a dark-haired Dwarf sat broodingly on his own, nursing a small keg of ale.

The draw she felt to him was far to strong for her to resist as she drifted over to him, collecting a stool along her way.

"May I inquire as to your name, Master Dwarf?" she asked politely, seating herself at a respectable distance from him. The Dwarf startled, nearly spilling his drink on his beard, which grew down to his naval. His grey eyes glinted in the dim firelight.

"Aye, indeed, m'lady," his voice rumbled, "I be Nain, Son of Durin the Deathless. Wha' brings a fair gem like yerself to my corner, if yeh don' mind me askin'?"

"I am the Lady Gloriel, daughter of Lord Luindír and Lady Aglardís. You are quite intriguing, Master Nain, and i find myself curious as to why you have secluded yourself from the merriment of the event."

Nain's grey eyes widened. The fair Elven maiden who had sought him out in the darkness of his self-induced solitude was the Lady Gloriel, the one the celebrations were centred around.

"Should yeh not be lookin' for yeh One, m'lady, rather than wastin' time chattin' with a lowly Dwarf?"

Gloriel grinned impishly.

"I believe my search has ceased, Master Nain. If you could favour my name over the titles ams formalities, I would be very appreciative."

Nain was stunned. This fair gem of a maiden had Chosen him to be her One? Eyeing her impish smirk and green eyes - the colour of the highest quality emeralds - glinting with repressed mirth, he could do no more than smile back.

"I'd be honoured, Gloriel," he murmured. The Elf suddenly stood from her stool, offering her slim hand to the stout Dwarf.

"Would you dance with me, Master Nain?" she requested, head cocked to the side, greatky resembling a sparrow or other small bird.

"Only if yeh call me Nain," he grunted as he stood, taking her delicate fingers in his own, bowing to kiss her knuckles. She blushed.

"Shall we?" Nain asked, taking a step towards the centre of the courtyard, where many other couples were dancing in time to the lively music that filled the garden.

The new couple chatted, each getting familiar with the other as the night wore on. As the sun began to rise over the Eastern mountains, Gloriel leaned down and, as was customary, kissed her One chastely.

In the background, the rest of the dancers cheered.

§*§

"I cannot condone the marriage of my youngest son to the she-elf!" bellowed the angry Dwarf. He did not approve of his youngest son's involvement with Gloriel. Although it was her Choosing, she should not have picked his dwarrowling.

He was livid when he witnessed the ceremonial kissing of the two as the dawn broke over the ridge. That rage was now being vented at the thrice-damned she-elf's father.

"Whether you approve of it or not, my daughter has Chosen and her choice cannot be altered," Luindír responded calmly. The Dwarf Lord standing in front of him turned red like the fires of the forges he worked in.

"You are refusing to return my son to me?!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips, some of which landing in his large, dark, grey-peppered beard.

"He is not stolen, nor is he mine to return."

Durin's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Is that your final say?" he asked in an even, very dangerous voice.

"Yes, I suppose it is," snapped the Elf Lord, fed up with the arrogance of the Dwarven King of Erebor.

"Then from this day forth," declared Durin in a booming voice, "the Elves shall receive no friendship from the nation of the Dwarves!"

He turned, and, coat billowing behind him in the mid-morning breeze, strode out of the halls.

*Many Months Later*

Although Nain was now exiled from the Dwarven kingdom, a happier dwarrow you would be hard-pressed to find. He and Gloriel were expecting their first youngling. Nowhere in the history of Middle Earth had there been a child of a Dwarf and an Elf. All who knew were eager to see the child.

When the babe was finally born, many were confused. It was a tiny thing - roughly the size of a small dwarrowling - but had disproportionately large feet and pointed ears.

To the surprise of all, a voice with no origin echoed throughout the halls.

"This is an event that shall be recorded in history," it whispered, "the birth of a new race. The Halflings; Hobbits."

A scribe was called, and details documented about the child.

"He shall be named Wilibald," declared Gloriel, "a new name for a new species!"

And so, the first Hobbit was born.

A/N: For those who are wanting me to update Mutated, I'm sorry! That plunny disappeared into the warren and shoved this one out in it's place! Please accept this as a token of apology... Anyway, the idea that hobbits are like a weird mix of elf and dwarf came to meone night and I thought 'hey, why not', and then this happened... This was typed on my ipad, so any mistakes... Well sorry. Feel free to correct me on things; I've yet to read the Silmarillion. Thanks for reading, please review!

pipthesnake, out!


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